


A Christmas for Christmas

by hardkourparcore



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Christmas Party, Fluff, Hallmark Movie AU, M/M, Non-Binary Linhardt von Hevring, Other characters mentioned - Freeform, They kiss in it, Trans Caspar von Bergliez, it's just gay with banters and flashback vignettes, once again i fail at tagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:54:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21996349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardkourparcore/pseuds/hardkourparcore
Summary: Five years ago, Caspar von Bergliez graduated from high school and told every one that he wanted to take a year long road trip before heading to college.  Now, he's only just coming home for the first time since then, and he's not sure why.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 12
Kudos: 73





	A Christmas for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Corrianders](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corrianders/gifts).



> 1) this was meant to be done in time for my best friend's birthday, and then it was meant to be done in time for christmas, and NOW it's actually done. i hope the timeliness doesn't mean you can't enjoy it.  
> 2) title was taken from [here](https://thischristmasonhallmark.com/) because obviously.  
> 3) Linhardt uses they/them in this fic and in any fic i write in the future  
> 4) I don't know why this is so long I'm sorry

Caspar wasn't sure himself what brought him back to the sleepy little town he'd left years ago. After spending the last five years living from motel room to motel room, occasionally sleeping in his car, and seeing all the tourist traps or hidden gems Adrestia had to offer, he'd already decided that he wasn't about to go back to the life he'd left. Yet, here he was, standing outside his parent's home, ready to ask if they'd let him use his old bedroom for the next two weeks until the coming snowstorms let up and he could hit the road again.

Hopefully in that time he'd figure out what had brought him back and get it sorted out enough so that he wouldn't have to come back again.

Years ago, if he'd come home early to find the door locked, he'd rap wildly at the door and ring the doorbell as many times until his exasperated mother eventually let him in. That was when it felt just as much his home as any one else's. Today he just knocked twice and waited. Through the door, he could hear the muffled voices of his parents bickering – his dad was groaning that his mom ordered too many things online and this was probably just another _fucking_ package.

In that brief instant between his words and his mother opening the door, Caspar seriously considered just leaving. The distance he'd put between himself and home had smoothed over his perspective. Those little things he seriously hated about living here became so distant he'd practically forgotten them, and now he was faced with them before he even had the chance to try and find the parts he felt nostalgic for.

The door swung open, revealing the stout build of his mother. Her blond hair was fading to silver at the roots, and she had maybe one more wrinkle than he remembered. The biggest difference was that he was no longer  _exactly her height_ . 

“Caspar?” she gasped. It took a moment for a smile to spread on her face, and in the next instant she'd pulled him tightly into her soft arms.

“H-hey, Mom.”

“You got so _big!_ ” she enthused. “How did you get so big?!”

The answer was probably routine work outs and a healthy dose of HRT, but Caspar didn't give it. He barely got a chance to, as the next thing his mother was doing was calling into the other room to tell his dad that “Honey, Caspar's back!”

If anything, he was surprised his dad got up and walked to the entryway to even look at him. Surprise of surprises – Caspar felt a little smug to see he'd outgrown dear old dad, too.

He gave a gruff grunt in lieu of any actual greeting, but considering his dad, Caspar decided it was as good as it was going to get.

“I know it's almost Christmas and everything,” Caspar began, once his mother had untangled herself from him and had moved onto fussing over some other aspect of his current appearance (he'd been wearing the same jeans and flannel for three days straight, and his hair was getting in his vision enough to alert him it was time to trim it). “But I was thinking of staying for a bit in town... Is my old room still... Uh...”

Internally, he cursed himself for never learning how to talk to his parents without feeling like he was wasting their time.

“Of _course_ it's still there for you, Caspar!” his mother replied. For some reason, he doubted he was going to get much more from his dad. “It's just how you left it, I promise.”

“And, uh, Dietrich?”

He hadn't heard from his older brother since about three weeks before he left. Dietrich was doing some sort of trade school, rather than take over the family business of fixing up junk cars. Caspar had never wanted to get too close to it himself, but after five years of keeping that junker of his operational, he could at least admire the skills the proximity gave him.

“Oh he moved out just last year,” his mom explained. That part surprised Caspar – if he was moving anywhere, it would be - “Just right down the street, actually! Got married to that high school sweetheart of his. You know, she's a _feminist_ now.”

There wasn't really a good way to describe the tone in which she said 'feminist' other than Caspar hated it. He expected some sort of rant to follow, but it swerved in an entirely different direction.

“So she's said it's her body and she doesn't even want to have children! And poor Dee, he's supporting it!”

Caspar's shoulders stiffened. He saw what was coming next.

“But _you_ can still give us grandchildren, can't you?” Her gaze darted briefly to his stomach.

“Uh. I haven't... Really...”

What he was going to say was that he hadn't dated since high school, when he was still nervous about letting his parents know he wasn't just a  _man_ but a  _gay man_ , and that whole thing had gone downhill when he and Ashe decided to adopt a cat together. Little Mountaindew had been so cute, they had no idea she'd tear their relationship apart.

“How long will you be staying with us?” she asked, seemingly at random.

Caspar didn't have an answer to  _that_ , either. “I dunno, a few weeks at most.” He gave a vague response. His mother was quickly reminding him of all the reasons he enjoyed living on the road better than living at home, and a few weeks was definitely more than enough time going down that memory lane. He opened his mouth to amend it with something else, but his mother cut him off.

“Oh, then you'll be around for the Christmas party!”

“The what.”

His mom continued almost like he hadn't said a thing. “That's the  _perfect_ time to meet a nice man. Or if you get a date for it ahead of time. There's still so many nice men living here. I'm sure all your friends from high school couldn't have  _all_ moved away!”

“Uh, yeah, Mom.” Caspar began his awkward inching on his way to the stairs and to the haven of his room. His mother began speaking to whoever would listen, and didn't seem to mind his departure in the slightest. Some things just never change, apparently.

The second floor felt the cleanest it ever had. It wasn't as though it looked any different than the hallway in his memory, more like the knowledge his brother wasn't around and the fact that he hadn't been here in years meant it felt emptier than usual. His room was the second on the right, and just like she'd said – it was completely untouched, right down to the decade-old lined paper he'd written “DIETRICH KEEP OUT” on.

There wasn't much to even disturb inside his room. He'd barely spent any time there when he lived in it anyway. The most he'd do aside from sleep was homework on the desk, and that was only if Linhardt was hanging at  _his_ house instead, and he hadn't plans of doing it at Linhardt's.

He tossed the backpack he used to carry all 4 of his outfits onto the desk. Washing his clothes while he was here was definitely on his list of things to do, but Caspar wasn't the sort of man to sit around reminiscing. He had to at least see how Linhardt was doing.

The question of whether or not Linhardt would have moved out didn't even cross his mind. Linhardt was  _always_ home. He knew that unlike him, they actually had an interest in the idea of college, but that didn't mean they wouldn't be home. It wasn't even worth thinking about.

Quicker than he'd escaped his mother and stumbled back into his old room, he was back down the stairs shrugging back on his light jacket, like he'd done so many times in his teen years. Like a reflex, he told his mother over his shoulder “I'm going over to Lin's!”

Whatever his mom called back to him was cut off by him slamming the door behind him.

Linhardt lived just a few blocks away from Caspar, the whole time they'd grown up. It had always been the perfect distance. Since it was close enough, and both houses were inside the same community, there had never been a problem with walking over whenever he pleased. Being a few blocks away gave him an excuse of staying over if it rained too much, too. His mom was a worrier, and anything heavier than a light shower would  _definitely_ give her boys a cold or flu, so impromptu sleepovers were often and welcome.

He still remembered the “back way” to Linhardt's house, which took him through more than a few backyards he probably shouldn't have been in. It made the fifteen minute walk about five, but that wasn't something he thought he could get away with anymore.

The Hevring house was one of the most well-taken care of in the community. Linhardt's dad made a lot of money doing whatever he did on all those business trips, and that left their mom at home with nothing but time on her hand. She liked gardening, or so Linhardt said, and she liked birds, and that was about all she ever did when she wasn't breathing down their neck asking them to do this or that. That it hadn't changed either suggested that she hadn't, though Caspar hoped quietly she let up on being angry at Linhardt so much.

He walked up to the door with less apprehension than he had approaching his own childhood home. That was the thing – he'd always felt, in some way, more comfortable here than his house. It didn't really make much sense to him. There was plastic on the couches in the living room, and there were rooms no one was allowed in, and all those rules that Linhardt's mom had put down that seemed so entirely pointless. The Bergliez home was easier to move in, but the Hevring home was easier to relax in... Somehow.

He knocked, and Linhardt's mother answered the door in half the time his had. She was a thin and slender woman. He'd have thought Linhardt resembled her more, but he'd never seen their father aside from one or two things so distant in his memory it was almost as though he'd never seen the man at all. She granted Caspar a thin frown, squinting slightly, before the glimmer of recognition sparkled in her eyes and her eyebrows raised.

“Cassie?”

Ugh. He cringed. “Caspar, Mrs. Hevring,” he corrected.

“Sorry,” she replied, completely unapologetic. “It _has_ been quite some time. Linhardt is exactly where you'd expect to find him.” Something about her words sounded defeated, but that was nothing new.

“Yeah, I'll just go up to _their_ room,” he replied pointedly.

Mrs. Hevring drifted vaguely away from the door to allow him in, and that meant he had to shut the door behind him.

Linhardt's room was small, that he remembered. Unlike Caspar, Linhardt spent most of their time in their room, or more aptly – _on their bed_ , and there was no shortage of things they'd inevitably pile on their desk or dresser or wherever it would fit. They didn't keep their room tidy, but it was never a problem, because Caspar was always there to help them clean it up when it got too overwhelming.

He knocked on their door. No response meant they were napping, _probably_. There had never been words against it, but Caspar hesitated before letting himself in. Things could have changed between them – that was reasonable, they hadn't been able to speak in years. Even if Linhardt was still his best and closest friend, Linhardt may have felt differently about Caspar now, and if that were the case he didn't want to overstep some unknown boundary.

...But waking Linhardt up by knocking would be way more unpleasant to them, and that he was confident about, so may as well.

Linhardt's room was unchanged _for the most part_. The biggest change was that it was now twice as big – a wall had been removed between Linhardt's room and the adjacent one, which was full of bookshelves stuffed with sundry books. Despite all the storage, there were still large piles of books sitting on the ground, and plenty more things strewn about that looked more like garbage than anything.

Everything else – their bed, their desk, etc – was exactly where Caspar remembered it, and the familiar sight was only compounded by the slumped shoulders hunched over that little desk sitting in front of the window. Linhardt had fallen asleep at their laptop, which was quietly continuing a tutorial on embroidery that they must have started watching or had simply come on autoplay sometime after.

It was a familiar scene, and an all-too familiar mood, and Caspar decided (like he'd done so many times in the past) to try and tidy things up for Linhardt.

He wasn't being particularly quiet about it – not that Linhardt would care. He almost felt bad that it had gotten as bad as it did. He only noticed Linhardt woke up when the woman explaining how thread a needle with multiple colors stopped abruptly mid-sentence.

“Cas?”

Before he even turned to face Linhardt, he was smiling, arms still full of food wrappers and throw-away coffee cups. “Hey, Lin.”

“No, I'm awake,” they mumbled mostly to themself. “What brought you back?”

They shifted in their chair, propping their head up on their palms and glancing at Caspar sideways. They didn't seem to change much either – maybe their hair was longer, but it was hard to tell when it wasn't tied back in anyway. It just spilt indiscriminately around their shoulders.

Caspar caught himself staring. Absently, he wondered where their hair tie went. They'd normally keep it back to some extent, using the ribbon Caspar had given them when they were just kids and Linhardt kept complaining about their hair...

But it was small. It didn't matter. Not really.

“Well, you know,” Caspar attempted while he searched for the right words. “I just sorta felt like I needed to come back for something.”

“You forgot something?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Linhardt smiled slowly. “Sounds like you.” They turned their gaze to look out the window. “Well, it's nice to see you again. Once your phone stopped being in service, I wondered if we'd ever get to talk again.”

“Oh, yeah.” His phone had been the first to go when his money began running low. “Sorry about that.”

“I don't blame you. My parents pay for my phone. That's the only reason it still works anymore, these days.”

Caspar threw away the rest of the garbage he was still carrying, though it didn't seem like much of a difference if he just threw it in the trash can. He'd have to empty it himself if he really wanted all of it out of Linhardt's room – they wouldn't do it themself at least.

“You _do_ know what day it is, don't you?”

“It's almost Christmas, yeah?”

“It's the twenty-third,” Linhardt said. They turned again to gaze at Caspar boredly. “Do you remember what that means?”

Caspar threw his head back and groaned. “There's that _party_...”

“Oh, yes. That party. Still happening.” Their mouth turned upwards into a smirk. “And now that _you're_ here, I don't have to suffer it alone. Misery loves company, as they say.”

He couldn't even remember why the parties happened. He'd been told maybe 80 times over his life, but the gist of it was, all their families knew each other, and they all had different reasons for going to the party. Ferdinand's father always went to brag about something, as did Bernadetta's. His own father went because Linhardt's was usually busy and going to the party made him seem like the better person or something petty like that.

Naturally, all their children got dragged into it when they could be. Caspar had gotten out of it for five years from his impromptu road trip, and he'd imagined he'd be the only one. Any one who went off to college would be home for Christmas break, so he'd end up seeing them... That was, if they hadn't even graduated yet. It had been about that long, hadn't it?

Caspar sighed and fell into a beanbag left in the center of a circle of stacks of books. “What have you been up to, anyway?”

He'd much rather talk about Linhardt.

“Well, same old, same old.” They gave him the courtesy of turning in their chair, hanging their legs off the side to face him. They hunched over, resting their elbows on their knees and using their hands to prop up their chin. “I haven't left the house since around my birthday, maybe.”

Yeah. That was Linhardt.

“Okay, well, I've been gone a long time, what else?”

Linhardt hummed. “I got a degree. All online.”

“That's awesome!” Caspar lurched forward. “You didn't even have to go away or anything?”

“Well, I didn't want to do anything, but my parents gave me the option of college or work, so...”

He laughed a little. Like Linhardt would ever pick work. College probably hadn't been hard for them at all.

“This is a gap year. Next year I might do a Master's program... But that seems like work, too.” Their eyes drifted closed, and they sighed again.

“Hey, don't go back to sleep! We've got so much to talk about!”

“I'm not,” they replied. “Just thinking. Do you recall what we used to do, every year, around this time?”

“Yeah!”

Just out the window Linhardt was seated in front of was a tree fort that Linhardt's mom paid Caspar's dad to help build. It was maybe the first time their parents ever got along at anything, and as children it had become their little place to go to get away from absolutely everything else in the world. When they were thirteen, Caspar decided they should decorate it for Christmas too, and so they threw lights around it clumsily, and found a tiny tree, and put small little dollar store ornaments on it.

Caspar jumped to his feet, and moved to look out the window around Linhardt. There the fort sat in the tree – covered in a layer of snow, completely bare save for that.

“You didn't do it,” Caspar said. He almost deflated.

“Of course I didn't. It's hard to do _anything_.”

Linhardt shrugged. He didn't really think they were right. Linhardt could do anything they liked. He remembered them eagerly getting stacks upon stacks of books from the library – the librarian sometimes had to make exceptions for them, since she knew they actually _would_ and _could_ read so many books in just two weeks. He remembered when they'd just decide to do something, so they'd walk off and start it, regardless of whether it got finished.

“How'd your room get so big?” Caspar asked. Maybe off topic, but that was something Linhardt complained about before.

“Oh that? I just knocked the wall down between my room and the next. We kept all the books in the guest room anyway. Now it's mine.”

Caspar could almost roll his eyes. “You did _not_ do all that work yourself.”

“Well, no.” They shifted again, stretching their arms out in front of them. “But I took a sledgehammer to it a couple of times to prove that I was serious about it, and then Mother got some one else to do the work.”

“You took a _sledgehammer_ to it?!” Caspar asked incredulously. He couldn't help but laugh. It poured out of him and bent him over Linhardt's chair until his face was close enough to them to smell their hair.

“Why is that so hard to believe?”

“It's not, it's not.” It was just the image of thin, twiggy Linhardt, hefting a sledgehammer boredly at a wall until the plaster fell away and there was a hole. Tearing down a wall had to be a lot of work, even if it was all the fun, destruction-y bits. Maybe they didn't do the whole thing, but it was definitely funny to imagine. “That sounds _exactly_ like you.”

Linhardt hummed. That meant they didn't get it. Probably.

They could have changed in the last five years, of course. That was a _possibility_ , but Caspar doubted it. They seemed exactly the same, and there was something about it that was comforting.

“So let's decorate the tree house,” Caspar said.

Linhardt leaned back, glancing up at Caspar with a question somewhere in their deep blue eyes, but it went unvoiced. “Alright,” they replied, and rose to their feet. “The stuff should still be in the attic.”

At that moment, they both paused. Perhaps they had the same thought in mind. Unfolded to their full height, Linhardt revealed the new truth that they no longer had a considerable height advantage over Caspar. If anything, it was just a few inches between them. This put their faces very close, but they were too comfortable with each other to feel anything unnatural with that. It wasn't uncomfortable, it was just new.

And it put a toothy grin on Caspar's face. “Ha! Told ya I'd grow!”

“Yes, you were right. Yet you still aren't taller than me.” Linhardt rounded him and began working their way to the hallway, where a set of stairs could unfold and allow them entry to the attic.

“You don't know I won't get any taller!” Caspar countered, quickly following them.

“We're twenty-two, Caspar. I'm confident you won't.”

Twenty-two. It didn't really feel that way. Then again, Caspar's past birthdays were either forgotten or only spent treating himself to something a little nicer than the cheap food he usually sustained himself with. Back at Linhardt's house, they could have been seventeen again, Caspar preparing to take that gap year to just _get out_ from his parent's house, and Linhardt preparing for his last year of school. They could have been fourteen again, when they'd both just learned what a high school dance was and how Linhardt would rather stay home, but Caspar would rather they come with him. They could have been thirteen, when Linhardt wouldn't admit they were sad their father wasn't coming home for Christmas, and Caspar decided to decorate the tree fort to give them something nice to distract themselves with.

Linhardt was still one or two steps in front of Caspar, far enough that he couldn't miss the way they brought their hands behind their head to pull back their hair in a way that was decidedly _new._ They made a soft sound and let their hair fall back in place, turning and retreating back to their room. “One moment. You can get the stairs down.”

“You just want me to do it because it sticks and sometimes needs a little force.”

“Yep.”

That didn't stop Caspar from doing it anyway, on his own. He tried to prevent the stairs from slamming down and making a harsh clang, and though it did make quite a loud sound, it seemed nowhere near as bad as it could have been. Linhardt re-emerged from their room a moment later. The hair that had framed their face was now pulled back into a bun, with the rest left to spread across their shoulders freely.

“Do you need my permission to climb up?” they asked, one eyebrow raised.

“I wasn't waiting,” Caspar said. He didn't really have an argument to make, so he just went up. Linhardt followed him.

The attic smelt like shit. At least, that was his first thought. It was all musty and gross, probably completely untouched since the last time they'd been up there, six years ago now, with the same goal in mind. “Is everything where we left it?” Caspar asked.

“Should be.”

It didn't seem to change much at all from the Hevring attic in Caspar's memory. Maybe there were some more boxes pushed to one side, or maybe it just smelt worse, but it all seemed pretty familiar.

That meant that the Christmas lights and garland and whatever else they'd put in their tree fort were all in a few cardboard boxes shoved to the left. Caspar made his way there.

The attic wasn't tall enough for him to stand straight up, and it was almost easier for him to crawl over there from the stairs. One moment after, Linhardt was beside him, also sitting on their knees in front of the boxes.

“Should we just bring the whole thing?”

“We always kind of had too much. I don't recall ever using everything,” Linhardt replied. They were already shoving their hands into the box, rooting around for whatever they thought was appropriate. As usual, they were right. One box would have been enough for decorating their tree fort completely. Three boxes was far too many. Caspar followed their lead.

“I'll grab lights,” Caspar said, in an attempt to be efficient. Linhardt hummed in acknowledgment.

They didn't really need to say much more between them, but Caspar wanted to fill the silence anyway. He started with “Hey, do you want to hear about all the places I've been?” and Linhardt didn't say _no_ , so that was an invitation to continue. He sorted through lights and untangled strands that got almost hopelessly knotted together while he told Linhardt all about those little motels and diners where Caspar met interesting people and watched the sunset every day.

Normally, Linhardt would only interrupt him when he repeated himself more than once. He was _convinced_ that he hadn't repeated himself at _all_ (There was just so much to talk about! That was impossible.) but Linhardt had still stopped him mid-sentence.

“Look what _I_ found.” Caspar could hear their smile before they turned to show it to him, brandishing a very familiar-looking _pendant thing_ in one hand.

Honestly, it was the ugliest necklace that Caspar had ever seen, but that was sort of the point. Years and years ago, when Caspar had first cut his hair and asserted that  _Cas stood for Caspar now, nothing else, he/him please, or I'll break your kneecaps_ , his mother had begged him to buy at least one girly thing to prove that he  _tried_ to be her daughter at the very least.

Reasonably, he and Linhardt went to the closest thrift store and bought the ugliest necklace they could find. It was undeniably  _girly_ , though. The chain was thick silver, and at the end was a small purse-like thing. It was supposed to look like a handbag, but really it was too small (so Caspar thought), and it was covered with ridiculous rhinestone-like tiles that shimmered and tinted their reflection some kind of pink. A bow topped it off. The little purse could open and close, and was big enough to maybe store a single tater tot in  _if you were desperate_ . Altogether, it had been garbage to Caspar, barely worth the one-fifty they spent on it.

Linhardt, for some reason Caspar could never understand, loved it for its hideousness, so when Caspar got too fed up to tolerate its presence at all, Linhardt took it graciously. They used to wear it pretty often, proudly displaying its sparkling garishness, probably specifically just to annoy Caspar or literally any one that looked in their direction.

And when they were sixteen, Caspar hid a horrifically embarrassing note inside of it, asking Linhardt to prom after he earnestly and awkwardly professed romantic feelings for his best friend. He thought they'd find it in a week, but they never did. He didn't think Linhardt  _ever_ opened that hideous little purse pocket, and staring at it now, with it dangling precariously from Linhardt's fist, he hoped they never did.

Not because Caspar didn't feel that way any more and it would make everything awkward, but because he  _did_ still feel that way, and if coming home had elucidated anything to him it was the simple fact that he wanted to hold fast to his friendship with Linhardt, and never let it go again.

(He'd work hard to keep up a phone plan and spend all his minutes just with Linhardt. That'd help him get back on the road without any of the weird longing-feelings he thought he felt, and that'd help Linhardt be less lonely. Two birds, one stone, and without addressing any of the feelings he thought he'd left behind years and years ago.)

Caspar's hand reached out to grab the thing on impulse, but Linhardt pulled it away too quickly.

“What are you doing?” they asked, pulling it over their head. “It's mine. I thought I'd lost it.”

“Uh... Yeah.” He wanted to get that note out of there, so that Linhardt could never read whatever he wrote. He couldn't remember, but there was no way it wasn't embarrassing, right? “Sorry.” He couldn't keep his eyes off it.

“Isn't it hideous?” they said, humor in their voice. They were watching him stare at it.

He had to answer. “It's the worst thing I've ever seen in my life.”

“I _know_.” Linhardt had a big smile on their face (or, well, big for Linhardt standards). And Caspar couldn't -

“Linhardt!”

There was their mother, calling.

“Mother,” Linhardt answered. They were never the sort to raise their voice, so it wasn't much of a surprise when their mom kept going.

“Linhardt! Can you hear me?!”

“We're in the attic, Mrs. Hevring!” Caspar called back. He was probably old enough to not be calling adults like that, but he couldn't even remember if he knew her first name anyway.

“You've got thirty minutes before we leave for the party!” she returned. Maybe she heard Caspar, maybe she didn't.

Her words certainly took the smile from Linhardt's face. They sunk forward, draping themselves dramatically over the boxes. “I suppose we won't get to finish this tonight. I need to change my clothes...”

“Why? You already look really good!”

That was certainly something that fell out of his mouth without any warning. His face heated up appropriately, and he quickly tried to amend it with a few stuttering syllables that didn't go very far at all before Linhardt cut him off.

“Oh no, I can't look good for it. I have to wear the most hideous Christmas sweater I own.”

They began moving back towards the stairs down. “Well, maybe we can do this tomorrow,” they suggested. “If you'll still be in town, that is.”

“Yeah, definitely.”

And that was when Caspar had what he thought was the best idea ever. For once,  _he_ had thought of a plan, and it seemed so foolproof and perfect in that moment, that he couldn't help but immediately and impulsively follow through with it.

“Hey, uh,” he said. “I cleaned up your room a bit, so let me just take the trash out for you before I go.”

“How sweet,” Linhardt teased. “Be my guest. I'm going to get dressed.”

They moved towards the stairs and let themselves down. Caspar followed, and thought it was just polite to close up the stairs behind him. Distantly, he wondered what else might be hidden in that attic that carried so many memories between the two of them, but it wasn't worth fretting about now.

That seemed to take enough time that, when Caspar let himself back into Linhardt's room, they were already shirtless, stepping out of their pajama pants and into a long skirt. He had to pull his eyes away from them. He only had just a moment to -

The ugly purse pendant was hanging off one of the corners of their bed frame. Caspar took it quickly before taking the trash can and exiting the room. It went directly into his pocket, and he only slipped the trashcan back in Linhardt's room after emptying it.

“Later, Linhardt!”

“Mhm.”

The walk back home seemed shorter than it had been to Linhardt's house. Caspar wanted to get the note out of the stupid purse and throw it away immediately, then he could give the thing back to Linhardt and they could both carry on like there wasn't some cheesy confession written by a dumbstruck teenage boy ever placed inside of it. In other words, everything would play out exactly as it should have. Easy.

But the moment he stepped in the door, his mother was pulling a coat on and ready to push him back out.

“Ooh, Caspar, dear, we were just leaving for the party! You remember right?” she asked, steadily buttoning her jacket.

“Uh, yeah, I was going to try and get a change of clothes and -”

“No, no, there's just no time! Go out to the car, we'll take you there.”

Oh goddess. Oh goddess, he was well and truly fucked now.

It was all he could think of on the brief car ride to the rec center the parents always rented out for the annual Christmas party. Linhardt was going to miss their shitty ugly necklace, and if they asked Caspar about it, it wasn't as if he was going to lie to them. He couldn't tell them the reason why he'd taken it, but he'd tell them he did, and give it back, and he could already see them opening it and reading that note absurdly fast and just laughing.

They'd probably say “No” gently, and fold it back up, and throw it away, and that would be it. They'd avoid him for the rest of his time in town, and he'd get back in his car, in the end, and drive off, and they'd never speak to each other again.

Caspar realized then that he really, really didn't want that.

The worst part of that scenario he'd conjured was the idea of Linhardt deciding they didn't want anything more to do with him. Ever. They'd spent the last five years, almost six, completely apart, and even if Caspar was going to go back on the road, he  _wanted_ the chance to talk to his favorite person, the person who understood him better than any one, the one who listened to him rambling about stuff even if they didn't really care about it at all and...

He held his head in his hands. He definitely, undeniably, still had that crush. And that note would be the worst way to let Linhardt know.

He didn't have to let Linhardt know at all, actually. He could just keep this tight to his chest and never worry about messing up what was, is, and can still be, the best friendship any one in the world has ever had. 

There had to be trash cans inside. He could rip up the note. He could salvage this. Everything would be okay.

Under his parents' coats, Caspar could still tell they were dressed up slightly. Dietrich, and his wife (who Caspar met for the first time there in that parking lot) were also appropriately Christmas-party-dressed. Caspar wasn't exactly the sort of man to feel embarrassed for sticking out, but juxtaposing looking like a hobo in stressed jeans and flannels to finally admitting to himself he had a crush on Linhardt made him feel especially under-dressed. 

The Bergliez family all entered together, Caspar trailing behind awkwardly. It wasn't that he didn't want to be associated with them, but that they'd made it mostly clear over the years that they didn't particularly care to be associated with him. Also there was that internal crisis he was having. That wasn't helping much.

His mind raced for ideas, but he was always bad at thinking up what to do or how to do it. That was Linhardt's job – that was why they worked so well together, that was how they got away with filling the principal's office with fish in high school without any one catching on.

Maybe he could just avoid them? That couldn't be too hard. Linhardt hated parties. They'd probably find some sort of quiet corner to hide away in when they weren't stealing as many Christmas cookies as possible.

That plan backfired about three steps into the building when Caspar found Linhardt lingering near the front door, waiting for him.

They lifted a hand in a lazy wave, offering Caspar a small smile. They hadn't been kidding about ugly Christmas sweaters either. The skirt might have made it seem formal, or at least corporate-casual, but the sweater was an ungodly mishmash of any Christmas iconography that could be conceived, topped off on front with a felt Santa Clause with huge googly eyes that were a little too far apart. Caspar hated it because he loved it and casually toting such a monstrosity at an event with some of the richest families in the country was very Linhardt.

“Ready to cause some trouble?” they joked.

“Honestly? You're kiiinda already doing that with the sweater.”

“It's great. Somehow, I lost that necklace so my outfit isn't completely a disaster. I thought the light reflected off of it would make more people look at the horrendous Kris Kringle on my chest, but alas.”

“Uh, yeah.” The necklace in question suddenly felt very heavy in his pocket. He was probably doing every one in attendance a favor by not handing it over, but it still felt a little too much like lying to prevent his stomach from doing flips. It wasn't like his guts needed any assistance being out of sorts and wiggly at the moment, either.

The party, once they'd entered it properly, wasn't any different than Caspar could remember. Every one looked older, maybe, or they had changed their hair or wore something different, but it wasn't like Edelgard looked any different at all, and Hubert was still hovering over her shoulder like some kind of creep.

“So,” Linhardt began slowly. “Would you rather avoid every one entirely, or say hello?”

“I've gotta say hi, at least,” Caspar answered. “Why, is there something I should know?”

Linhardt took in a breath. Caspar knew they were about to tell him a lot, so he did his best to focus on them and their voice.

“Before her father died, that year you left, our parents were trying to set up Edelgard and I. She still sort of thinks it's a good idea, so I'm still waiting for Hubert to kill me in my sleep. Speaking of, did you know Hubert's got it bad for Ferdinand?”

“No way.” An easy smile found its way on Caspar's face. How could he be nervous when Linhardt was not only in a good mood, but on a tangent?

“It's excruciatingly painful to watch,” they continued. “Ferdinand has no idea, and any time he tries flirting back it's like Hubert doesn't even notice. Keep an eye out if you want some schadenfreude. Also, it may be hard for you to tell, but Ferdinand's already losing his hair. I swear he's cried over his receding hairline already, so don't say a thing.”

“Got it. Is that why he grew his hair out?”

“It's likely. Dorothea probably brought some man with her. She kinda stopped that hitting on every one thing, but she'll probably look for any reason to get away from him tonight if you want to get tangled up in her mess. Bernadetta's been much more social, but she'll still be hiding in some dark corner. She's with Petra, actually, so it might be a good idea to look for one if you want to find the other.”

“Is that all I need?”

“You should be all set, now. If you need me, I'm going to take as many cookies as I can and try to escape into the hallway with Bernadetta.”

“No one can see your sweater if you're in the hallway.”

“If they look for me, it'll be a punishment of its own.”

The two separated. Linhardt did exactly as they said – Caspar caught their plate loaded with various sweets, enough to make a small mountain of sugar, before drifting off into the corner Bernadetta was hiding in.

Caspar didn't exactly  _make rounds_ , but he did enjoy talking to his friends. All of them were happy to see him in some way – even Hubert, which was wild and completely out of left field – but it left him with the impression that even if he drove off into the sunset for another five years, they'd all think of him fondly, and open their doors if he ever stopped by for lunch.

That was an awesome feeling.

He even shared some of his anecdotes with them, though he stopped himself in the middle of telling them about this little kid he met who reminded him of Linhardt, because that was a story he wanted to tell Linhardt, too, and it seemed like a relatively good time to seek them out.

As luck would have it, they were refilling their plate with another stack of sugar cookies. Caspar was at their side before they could walk off.

“You're going to make yourself sick,” he chided.

“Whatever else can I do at a party?” Linhardt shoved a cookie in his mouth before Caspar could make a counterpoint. They started eating a cookie themself, but they stood around, waiting for whatever point Caspar had to make.

Caspar wasn't a stranger to talking with his mouth full anyway. “So, as I was telling Dorothea --”

“Caspar!” Of course his mother had to interrupt him. He swallowed in the interest of avoiding her yelling at him for it (honestly, it was a wonder Linhardt hadn't already), and turned to face her, at least to hear her out. “I _just_ got done speaking to Mrs. von Aegir, and...”

On second thought, maybe he could still run. Linhardt, beside him, held some sort of self-satisfied smile, like the cat who ate the canary. His mother just went on and on about something or another. He knew it would be leading up to  _so anyway, Ferdinand's single_ , and the mere thought of what she was trying to do was enough to make Caspar dry heave reflexively.

“Oh, unless!” she suddenly cut herself off. Her eyes darted between Caspar and Linhardt, and they both knew what she was about to say next.

They spoke at exactly the same time.

“No,” said Caspar.

“Yes,” said Linhardt.

“Yes?!” Caspar asked, glaring at them. “Are you serious?!”

Linhardt just shrugged. “Shouldn't you have told your mother sooner? For shame, Cas.”

“Linhardt, you can't just – “

“Shh.” They turned to face him fully, winking. They probably meant to hide it from his mother, and a single glance to her proved that they'd succeeded. “We haven't danced yet tonight. Don't you want to?”

They had a plan. Caspar couldn't tell what it was, but he knew the motions, and he trusted Linhardt, at least. “Yeah, alright.”

“Sorry, Lisette,” Linhardt directed at his mother. “Maybe you and he can talk about this later. Surely you'll excuse us for a dance?”

His mom, clearly excited at the notion that her son had some sort of significant other, beamed amiably and made a shooing gesture with her hand. “Yes, of course! Go, go! I'll talk to you later, Caspar.”

Great. He'd have preferred not talking to her at all, if he had the choice.

Linhardt just unceremoniously dropped their plate of sweets on the table, as though it were only natural, and took Caspar's hand, leading him gently to the designated dance floor. Caspar's ears burned, but he kept his gaze forward. Maybe people were staring, or maybe they weren't, it was better not to look up and find it confirmed.

“I don't know how to dance,” Linhardt said. “But this seems like a fine enough song to just sway aimlessly back and forth, don't you think?”

It was some classic Christmas song, taken at a slower tempo so that the female singer could show off just how much she should extend her vowels and prove how good she was at making her voice wave into different notes. Seemed as good as anything, at least. “Whatever. Are we far enough away now that you can tell me what the hell that was?”

No. Linhardt still took their time. First, they had to drape their arms across Caspar's shoulders, and he was sure they'd move his hands if he didn't place them at their hips.

They'd never had any hesitance to being close. When they were younger, they'd cuddle up on the couch because it was comfortable and warm. They'd hold each other's hands on the way to school out of some childhood belief that it was safer that way. Caspar would even pick up Linhardt to move them if they fell asleep somewhere inconvenient. One day, they both sort of silently agreed to stop their casual closeness, and it became rarer and rarer. Despite that, the closeness here didn't exacerbate the heat gathering in Caspar's face.

That heat was lingering because Linhardt's eyes were the same color as a stormy sea, just as deep and dangerously inviting. The color was the same as dark clouds. It conjured memories of hiding in a pillow fort, Linhardt's fingers comfortingly sifting through his hair, during a scary thunderstorm where Linhardt only read his book out loud not because Caspar cared about its contents or because Linhardt liked doing that, but because their voice could anchor him away from his fear of lightning.

Linhardt sort of pushed Caspar into a “dance”. It was really just the shitty swaying back and forth that people did when they didn't know how to dance but wanted to do something intimate with their partner. Caspar couldn't tell if that made it worse or better.

“If you're dating me, your mother won't spend the night trying to foist you on some other poor sap,” they explained. “You get a break, she has a better night, and no one else gets bothered with that nonsense. So just pretend you're dating me for one dance, and that should be enough to convince her.”

“Isn't that... lying, though?”

Linhardt paused, a little uncharacteristically. They'd usually come up with a plan and start speaking it when it was only half finished, then make changes as they continued talking. Caspar couldn't prove they did that, but he had a few guesses, at least, and that was sort of the opposite of whatever they were doing now. “Weeeelll...”

The strung the word between their thoughts, dragging it out to fill the space between.

“We could always stage a horrific break up after, if you like that.”

“Not really...”

“Alright, then what would you rather?” Linhardt asked. Their tone was open, kind rather than sarcastic. It was a genuine question.

Caspar would rather date them for real, but he'd rather never have to admit that, either.

“It's... fine,” he relented. “This is fine.”

“No, I want you to be fine with it, too. Don't just say it to please me.”

He huffed. “I'm fine with... dancing with you. For a bit. Just don't go around saying it or anything. She might be talking about it, but... That's it.”

“Understood,” they replied. And for a moment, that was it for conversation.

Caspar wasn't sure where he was supposed to look. Did he look at Linhardt? Their eyes? Their hair? Did he look over their shoulder, and try to see whoever was watching them? Should he look at their feet, to make sure he didn't accidentally step on theirs?

He tried to look over their shoulder. It was sort of weird how easy that was. Five years ago, he might have to stand on his tip-toes peek over. Now he just... could. He could even set his face in the curve between Linhardt's neck and shoulder easily, but that was a thought he was more than ready to push out of mind.

When he looked, though, Linhardt was staring straight into his eyes with that half-lidded stare they usually held.

He furrowed his brow. His face was heating up again. “What?” he demanded.

“Oh, it's just... Wouldn't _that_ be romantic?”

Their eyes didn't dart in any direction, so they weren't trying to point out anything that was happening around them. Caspar didn't answer, and they elaborated on their own. “Some one going away on a grand adventure and only coming back to their hometown for the one person they missed out of any one else... Dancing together and kissing on Christmas.”

Caspar wished he had some recourse to hide his face that wasn't Linhardt's shoulder. He wasn't about to take that. “Dude, shut up.”

“I'm saying it'd be nice!” they returned.

“This is stupid,” Caspar declared. “This whole thing is just... I need to get some air.”

“Well, alright.” Linhardt was already uncurling their arms from around his neck, drawing away slowly to give him the space to retreat. “You know where to find me.”

“Yeah...”

He moved to walk away, but a sudden resistance at his hip stopped him. It wasn't their hands... He looked down to see that glittery chain sticking out of his pocket, having been caught on a loop of Linhardt's sweater, and sticking fast.

“Oh, shit,” he said. Perhaps a tiny bit a desperation was in his voice. Just a little.

“What's that?” Linhardt's voice was more curious as they reached down to try and unhook the sparkling chain from their sweater.

Caspar's hands were quicker. “It's nothing!”

His fingers brushed against theirs and he hurriedly tried to separate necklace from sweater and make his departure. It was a little tricky – how did the damn thing even get stuck anyway?! – and he yanked a little hard and there was a snap and the necklace tumbled out of his pocket, chain breaking, still stuck to Linhardt's sweater.

“That's – “

Linhardt made to say something, but adrenaline gave Caspar the speed he needed to get it unstuck entirely. He balled up in his fist and barely spared Linhardt another glance before rushing off and out of the building. Maybe he stumbled on the way out, maybe his face, his eyes, or his ears were burning from something or another. He heard Linhardt calling after him, but... Goddess, he'd already made a scene. 

He wanted to just isolate himself outside. It was cold, but not so cold he couldn't just stand to sit out there and... What, brood?

He dragged his hand down his face. Everything about this sucked.

The stupid necklace was broken, and that was Caspar's fault. Linhardt would be either mad or sad or... smad about it, and that was Caspar's fault. He was already planning his escape for the morning after, and that sucked, since even if he had been fine for the past few years, it would have been nice to have a single Christmas with his family and that sucked.

He'd wash his clothes. The washer/drier combo was in the basement, so the noise wouldn't wake his parents. He'd pack everything up and get out after breakfast. Maybe somewhere down the line he'd get a phone card and text Linhardt just because he couldn't really bear the idea of them leaving his life forever. (If they chose it, it was one thing, but he wouldn't just let that be his fault too.) 

Even though he hadn't had a phone in years, he could still clearly recall Linhardt's phone number. That was more-so because it had the weed number in it, and the two of them had giggled over it when they got their first cell phone.

Now he was thinking of Linhardt's laugh, them smiling, hunched over, giggling until their eyes were wet. This crush of Caspar's wasn't new in the slightest.

“Cas.”

Linhardt's voice, soft as it was, nearly made him jump out of his skin. He turned, hesitating.

“Sorry,” he blurted immediately.

Linhardt just wordlessly pushed a styrofoam cup towards him. “Hot chocolate, if you want it.”

They had an identical cup in their other hand, so they must have specifically gotten it for him. He took it, slowly, but didn't say thanks. “You're not mad at me?”

“For breaking my favorite gaudy trinket? Maybe a little. I'm more curious as to what's gotten under your skin so thoroughly. Do you really hate that thing so much?”

The truth was... “No, I don't,” he sighed. “I... Do you remember in high school... That year you thought you wanted to go to a school dance, so you had this plan to get Ferdinand to ask you to one because you thought he'd be the easiest to lose once you got there, in case you didn't like it?”

“I remember,” they answered.

Outside the rec center was a small two-post fence that Caspar was leaning against. Linhardt joined him there.

“I thought... I thought I was gonna do one of those weird prom-posals you see on insta and shit. But I guess I wasn't very good at it. I wrote up a note telling you how important you are to me and everything...” With a single hand, he tried flipping open the purse and wiggling the note out. His hands were shaking, slightly, and the motions were slow, but he ended with the necklace in his pocket and the note in his hand. He unfolded it with his thumb. The handwriting was perfectly clear and crisp, as if he wrote it yesterday, though that was probably because it had never been removed from its sparkling, hideous prison.

He'd forgotten he had scribbled gaudy pink hearts in some glittery gel pen all over the corners.

_Hey Linhardt!_ _♡_ It began. He didn't want to read the whole thing, he might cringe out of his skin. At the very least, the feelings were the same, so he could probably recapture it pretty effortlessly.

“I guess you never found it in there.”

“That was in there all that time?” Linhardt asked. Their shoulder was now touching Caspar's, but the contact wasn't making anything worse. Caspar could make this confession from the comfortable safety that the circle of their arms could bring, and it might feel the same way... If not be a little more comforting.

“Sure was,” Caspar said, almost bitterly. It wasn't a bitterness out of the fact that Linhardt never found it, but more towards the entire circumstances leading to this moment. There was no stopping now, anyway. “I guess you can read it if you want... Not like it matters now. It's just... Lin.”

He turned to face them better, and found them staring at him almost serenely. In the dim light from the few over-hanging lamps above the parking lot, they were lit up a calm yellow, almost glowing.

“I don't really know when it happened,” he continued. “But at some point, I got this crush on you. It had to start a long time ago... And it hasn't really stopped. I don't _ever_ want to stop being your friend, but this note was all about me telling you how bad I have it... Kinda.”

With their free hand, Linhardt plucked it from his fingers. “In that case, I want to read it.”

Caspar's jaw set. Did they want more ammo to make fun of him with? He was sure it was there. He probably wrote all about how their smile made him silly, or how he missed how much they used to hold each other's hands, or that he wondered what it would feel like to kiss them, even after he knew what kissing even felt like.

“If you feel like laughing can you just... not?” he requested. “I think I screwed up tonight bad enough already.”

“Why would I laugh? I felt the same way about you for awhile, too. I'd have definitely said yes to prom.”

“Wait, what?”

They were slightly pink, their blush only vaguely visible in the yellow lamplight. They gave him a sideways glance, still holding that letter in front of them. “Come on, Caspar, do you really think I'd dance with just anyone?”

“Not if you didn't want to.”

“I assure you, I don't want to.” They folded the note the best they could and tucked it up their sleeve, probably for safe keeping. Then they turned, placed their cup of hot chocolate on one of the fence posts, and turned to face Caspar. “I'm only going to say this once, so listen closely.”

It felt like teasing. They'd never stop teasing him, probably, but Caspar never minded.

“I... missed you,” they began. Their expression was open. Caspar might have expected a smile, or a smirk while they just confessed in their usual blasé demeanor. They weren't, though, they were pink, and a little twitchy, and beautiful. “After you left I just kept thinking about you and thinking about you and then you came back, just today, and I realized I don't want you to leave again. Or if you do, I want to leave with you.”

They paused, their eyes darting away briefly before they forced themselves to maintain eye contact again. “It's Christmas, Caspar. And this year... I thought I got you.”

Caspar didn't have a single thought in response to that, but he certainly felt a reaction. His stomach twisted up into some kind of warm bundle, and before he thought better of it, he'd completely tossed his hot chocolate aside carelessly in order to pull Linhardt suddenly into his arms, hugging them tightly. They grunted at impact, forced to take a step backwards, but their arms wrapped around Caspar too.

Their fingers found his hair, and Caspar found out how it felt to bury his face in Linhardt's shoulder. He could smell their hair, and their sweater – clean and familiar scents that made him think  _this is it, this is why I came home after all_ .

“Caspar.” Linhardt's voice was low, close to his ear. He could feel their breath warming it. “I'm in love with you.”

He gave Linhardt a squeeze, and couldn't keep himself from lifting them in the air and off their feet. “I'm in love with you, too!” he returned. “I love you so much, Linhardt!”

Caspar could have predicted exactly what they'd say next. “I love you too, please set me back down.”

So he did, chuckling awkwardly. He pulled away just so he could look at Linhardt again – flushed pink in the chilly air, smiling warmly, staring at him... They still had a hand sifting through his hair, the other resting on his shoulder.

“I'm sorry I broke your ugly necklace because I'm dumb,” Caspar said quickly. “And I'm sorry I've been acting weird. But if you want to do the dating thing for real, I'd be really happy to be your boyfriend.”

Linhardt hummed. They pressed their forehead to Caspar's, closing their eyes and they moved closer and closer to him. His heart pounded frantically in his chest. Surely they could feel it. If he focused, he could hear theirs, beating just as fast.

“You're not actually staying, though, are you?” they asked, eyes still shut. Their touch was so gentle as their fingers found his cheek. 

“Nah, not really. I know I said I'd go for a year and come back, and then it ended up being longer... But there's so much out there to see. And, uh, if you want...”

He moved his hand to close around their fingers and gave their hand a gentle squeeze. “I'd like to show you all of it.”

“That sounds nice,” they said. 

Together, they stood there for a moment, quietly intimate. It was comfortable – too comfortable, really. Caspar might have expected to be nervous, or anxious, but instead of worrying that he'd hurt Linhardt's feelings unintentionally somehow, he was just calm. This was in spite of the flips his stomach was doing, or the rate of his heartbeat.

Linhardt broke the silence, pulling away slightly with a small pout. “But you see, Caspar, you still haven't kissed me.”

“Oh. D-did you want to? I didn't know, I mean, you seemed less than into that hug earlier, so I figured you just didn't - “

“Shh. Don't make me do it myself.”

So he didn't. Caspar was eager, and more inclined to smash their faces together, but he let the first one be soft and sweet. Even with his eyes closed, he was sure he saw stars, and when he opened them (even better) he got to see Linhardt smiling.

“So... Do you want to ditch the party? Mother can surely get a ride home with your family.”

Caspar should have said no, in the interest of not pissing off Mrs. Hevring, but Linhardt was gorgeous in the weird yellow lighting, even in their stupid ugly sweater, and it had been a good while since the two of them, together, had caused any trouble. “Yeah, sounds good.”

**Author's Note:**

> as always you can catch me on twitter [@hardkourparcore](http://twitter.com/hardkourparcore)  
> i love comments but don't always reply! thank you <3


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